Eyes
by chronically radioactive
Summary: "But he was wrong. He was dead wrong." - Very slight F!LW/Butch


a/n: _Was gushing with a bro on tumblr about Butch's blue eyes, and I ended up writing this. ENJOY! (:_

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><p>Butch hadn't expected the Wasteland to…suck so much. The second he stepped out into the huge, open world beyond 101's hulking metal door, something died. The air was too clear, too breathable; there were no ceilings above him. Nothing gave him that comfortable, caged-in feeling. Tunnel Snakes were too awesome to be scared of <em>anything<em>, so he bottled up all those childish, immature emotions. Who needed fear? Fear would get him nowhere, out in this dog-eat-dog world. Only his pure, awesome devotion to adventure and badassery would keep him alive. Hell, if James' stupid daughter could make it out there, so could he.

But he was wrong. He was dead wrong.

Joining up with a trade caravan had been the single best idea he'd had – possibly ever. He wasn't used to working with people, wasn't too keen on functioning as a group. He wasn't the leader for once, and that angered him. That arrogant stupidity got him kicked out of their close-knit, safe caravan and on his own once again.

By the time Butch got to Rivet City, he had lost fifteen pounds. It seemed lots of things had changed, and not just physically. The wide-open space was doing something funny to his head. He was paranoid, and he jumped at whatever loud, rolling noise lifted over the hills each night. For once, he was on the bottom of the food chain.

He liked the tight metal walls of the hulking, Pre-War ship. The green-blue lighting of his room kept him at peace, and he grew pale once again under the calm fluorescence.

The first few nights were absolute bliss.

No blindingly bright sun, no unnervingly blue sky…he could live happy, locked up safe and sound in the ship. Soon, though, he realized that nothing could keep him happy like control, like power. But trying to remain confident and dominating in Rivet City was like a death wish. Even though Harkness put up with his shit for a long time, even he knew that another incident would get him thrown off the ship for good.

So, he adopted his mother's way of dealing with problems. A nice, tall glass of whiskey didn't keep him warm at night, didn't pat him on the back when he began sinking into depression, but it sure as hell took the edge off of the heavy, crushing despair. And that was more that he could hope for.

Eventually, his days and nights began to lull into a constant schedule of drinking sessions in the Muddy Rudder, boozing so much that he passed out, woke up sick, and had to down a shot just to fucking function. Sometimes, that terrible, grating edge of loneliness never wore off, and those were the days that he spent alone in his room, the days that he spent sitting with his back against the comforting steel wall, shooting up with whatever chems he had managed to buy with money from infrequent haircuts.

Most of the hours in a day he could be found sitting in the corner of the bar, under the oppressing blue lights, alleviating his troubles with a bottle of ages-old whiskey or vodka. It was there that he was the most at ease, despite the shameful hopelessness that kept his normal, energetic nature at bay.

It was also there, slouched in a booth at the edge of the bar, that she saw him for the first time in months. Surprised at the encounter, she had made her way over to him, shouting greetings and then obscenities when he didn't respond. If he didn't recognize her, that would be forgivable. The Wasteland changed people, usually for the worse, and she certainly wasn't the peppy, bug-eyed wannabe scientist that had run out of the Vault in search of her father so long ago.

She was with the Brotherhood now, forcing herself to make the Wasteland a better place, even though she felt that there was no hope for it. Her father was gone, she'd been kicked out from the one place she'd been able to call home, and the many favors she did never came back around.

However, she put on a smile and approached him, noting with some worry the passive, apathetic expression on his tan face. She called out once more, and this time he did look up.

She stopped in her tracks, and the ghoul behind her had to halt suddenly to avoid a collision. He was no longer the epitome of _cool, _she no longer envied him for his effortlessly keen, fuck-the-rules attitude. While his eyes had once been that clear, startling electric blue that made her knees quiver, something had taken away the playful glint. There were bags under his eyes, darkening them, taking away that familiar luster.

She had once kissed him, as teenagers; as a bet. It was all fine and dandy, she remembered, but the best part had been opening her eyes halfway through. He'd been watching her all along, and she'd lost her breath at the cheeky glimmer that played across their irises when their eyes met. She would have the image of his stupid, smug grin and those beautiful robin's egg blue orbs stuck in her head for a long, long time, but…

This image of him, sitting forlorn and hopeless at a seedy bar in the middle of the hellhole that the Wasteland had became, staring listlessly up at her with a dim, dejected expression…_that_ would be lodged in her memory forever.


End file.
